Break Down Here
by Schreibertooth
Summary: Of course, in the heat of an argument between a Scotsman and a hot blooded Southerner, neither really cares what the topic of argument is. Each only cares that he is angry and wants to kick the everloving daylights out of the other. -Scones Angstficlet-


A/N: Hello there. It's been forever and a half since I've done anything new...hasn't it? Well, that's not entirely true, but what I have been doing can't be posted here since it's original... and not fanfiction. Anyways, this one has a funny story to it. I was sitting there at about 3 in the AM, listening to this song, Break Down Here by Julie Roberts. All of the sudden, I got this idea... And it wouldn't go away until I wrote it. So I cranked this out in two hours so I could get some sleep, since I'm generally not up at o'dark thirty. But, hey. I get my best ideas at whatthefuck o'clock in the morning. This isn't half bad, honest. i reread it and was like "wow, for some looney ramblings of a raving, sleep-deprived leprechaun, this is pretty cool."

So...here you go. Enjoy Pre-TOS 2009 Karl Urban!Bones in all of his angsty "I-am-a-doctor-not-a-battered-housewife" glory.

* * *

_Mile marker 203,_

_Gas gauge leanin' on the edge of 'E',_

_And I'll be danged if the rain ain't pourin' down._

_There's somethin' smokin' underneath the hood._

_It's a-bangin' and a-clangin,_

_And it cain't be good._

_And it's another 50 miles to the nearest town..._

He could remember a time, once, when he actually looked forward to Shore Leave. The concept of that, now alien to him, had once been a comforting though, one that carried him through the grueling, demanding, and sometimes near fatal task of being the Chief Medical Surgeon of a starship.  
Of course, as of late, there was almost no point to utilizing the free time he had been given. The past few times, it had ended the same way. Jim seemed to think that locking him in a room- or on a planet- with the god damn Engineer would solve all of the problems that the two had with eachother. Problems that had arisen over weeks and months could be cured in a few day's time. Yes, that was Jim's logic. He would have made a horrible Vulcan. It was true that McCoy was a doctor, and no Therapist, but he could still see that Jim's so called "solutions" had only been making things worse.  
The fighting wasn't so bad when they were at work. When they were on the ship. Their reasons for seeing eachother on the clock were always minimal, as the Engine room was nowhere near Sickbay, and Dr. McCoy spent almost every waking hour **IN** Sickbay, and Mr. Scott in the Engine room. Each had the time to properly ignore one another.  
However, being forced shore side with the man only made McCoy angrier at him, and seemed to do the same to Scotty, to the point that each was sure that this was the other's fault. More fighting ensued, and nothing ever got solved that way. The fights had always ended with McCoy simply ignoring Scotty, spending the rest of his time making a point of NOT talking to him, and Mr. Scott seemed perfectly fine with that. That was how it ended, and that was how they returned to the ship. Until now.  
"Damned if you didn't pick a good day to do this to me..." He grimaced, shaking his head. His ocean eyes kept flicking from the large red "E" on the gas gauge- the one that the needle was so avidly straining towards, and the "service Engine" light- the one that was blinking angrily at him. It was also raining, which, by no means at all, prevented it from being hot and muggy. To add to the beauty of the situation, he had no clue where he was. There was nothing ahead, nor behind him. He had just gotten into the damn truck and left. He was somewhere in Georgia... _was_ he still in Georgia?  
He didn't want to think of it. It made his head hurt more than it already did. He clenched his jaw angrily and winced painfully, remembering that that had also hurt. Sonnovabitch, but that Engineer hit _hard_. He probably had a nice angry welt on the side of his head, and he was lucky that sore was all his jaw was... and not broken. He still didn't know where he was... And realized that he didn't care. What made this time any different from the others, he couldn't say. He had simply had enough. So he left.

_Under fifty-thousand miles ago,_

_Before the bad blood and busted radio,_

_You said I was all you'd ever need._

_But love is blind, and little did I know,_

_That you were just another dead-end road._

_Paved with pretty lies and broken dreams._

_Baby, leavin' you is easier than being gone._

_I dunno what I'll do if one more thing goes wrong..._

His track records with relationships was atrocious, to say the least. He had his bitter divorce and equally as bitter ex-wife to attest to that. To say the least, it had been laughable for him to assume that things would be any different with the Engineer.  
At first, he had been skeptical of the younger man. He was a genius,that was for sure, but a trifle odd... and too easygoing for the Doctor's tastes. In the end, his charming nature and friendly demeanor had won McCoy over, despite his earlier wariness.  
For a while, nothing was wrong. They got along exceedingly better than McCoy had with his ex-wife, and none of the things that she had made the Doctor feel insecure about seemed to bother the young Engineer, nor could McCoy find any fault with him... and he was a very picky man. McCoy had perhaps relaxed into the relationship too soon.  
Fighting had been one of the issues he had with his first marriage, and thus, at first, he thought nothing of it. Fighting was something that normal couples did, and he didn't let it trouble him. When he had noticed that their arguments were irregularly... regular, he had no clue. They were, in retrospect, all incredibly stupid little things that really, did not need to be bickered over. Of course, in the heat of an argument between a Scotsman and a hot blooded Southerner, neither really cares what the topic of argument is. Each only cares that he is angry and wants to kick the everloving daylights out of the other. This, Commander Spock would suggest, was perhaps the problem. Of course it was a problem.  
Of course, McCoy thought, it was entirely his fault for not retaining his initial cynicism. It was also incredibly naive of him to assume that things, eventually would work themselves out, or that things would get better, because they hadn't. The fact that he was in the middle of God-only-knew-where in an archaic old Chevrolet Silverado with a smoking engine and nothing but regrets was proof enough of that. He stared miserably ahead. How easy would it be to just turn around and go back the way he had come? He had been driving straight for hours like this, perhaps he could make it back. The engine began to whine and cough, bringing him abruptly out of his thoughts.  
"God DAMN it!" He swore loudly, slamming his palm against the steering wheel. Who was he kidding...?

_I'd sure hate to break down here. _

_Nothin' up ahead or in the rear-view mirror._

_Out in the middle of nowhere knowin'_

_I'm in trouble if these wheels stop rollin'._

_God help me, keep me movin' somehow._

_ Don't make me start wishin' I was with him now._

_I've made it this far without cryin' a single tear..._

_I;d sure hate to break down._

_It's too late to turn around..._

_And I'd sure hate to break down here..._

_He chose to ignore the sounds that the en_gine was making, ignore the angry red flashing of the "service Engine" light, and ignore the nagging voice in the back of his head that kept reasoning with him, trying to convince him to turn back. He had come this far... And he simply was not going to give in and go back. He had more pride than that. More dignity. This time was going to be different. His knuckles were white from how hard he was gripping the wheel. Far from being a religious man, McCoy found himself pleading with some higher being to just keep him moving. Moving where, he didn't know. Just moving. For some reason, he was sure that if he stopped, it would be over.  
As long as he was moving, his will was unbreakable, and he could continue on without wanting to go back. Well... that was a lie, he had thought about it frequently. However, he knew as long as the truck was moving, he would move with it, god damn it. And the only way it was going to move was the way it was pointed.  
As luck would have it, that was the very moment that his engine gave out.  
"Shit!" he hissed, slamming both palms against the steering wheel again. He was able to pull to the side before the truck came to a full stop. Well... maybe he could fix it. He jumped out of the cab and into the driving rain, slamming the door shut ill-temperedly. he threw the hood of the truck up and peered down into the inner workings of the vehicle. The engine was hot and smoking, the rain that hit it dissolving into a sizzling steam on contact. The first thing he thought to do was check the oil, which was fine. The transmission had not dropped, and the engine was not flooded. Perhaps it was overheated. Thinking that that may be the problem, he emptied the remaining contents of a water bottle into the coolant tank. Closing the hood, he hopped back into the cab, wet and frustrated, and turned the key in the ignition. The engine sputtered and whined, but did not turn.  
"No. Don't _DO_ this to me." He grunted angrily, jerking the key again, with the same results.  
"No. No. NO. No." He tried again and again, only to experience the same result each time. The engine simply would not start.  
"Dammit!" The Doctor cried, running his hands frustratedly through his hair, clenching his fists furiously. He was stuck. Stuck in the middle of nowhere, and he had no clue what was wrong with the goddamned truck. The gauge was on "E", but it had a reserve tank, which would have taken him a good 30 miles before he was literally just running on fumes. He gripped the steering wheel, hunching against it miserably. Scotty would have known what was wrong with the god damned thing.  
And just like that, he had lost. All of this, he had lost, and now he was stranded in the middle of nowhere in the pouring rain for no reason. He didn't even have his dignity, anymore. He lowered his head to rest, defeated, against the steering wheel, shoulders shaking, and broke down.

_Mile Marker 215..._


End file.
